


the orangina to my orange soda

by benwvatt



Series: each and every universe [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-14 05:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11201838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benwvatt/pseuds/benwvatt
Summary: Again and again they find each other, as soulmates do. The universe works in mysterious ways.





	1. stereotypical first words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which soulmates have each other's first words on their arms (again.)

When Amelia Santiago was born, her parents were proud. They looked upon their daughter’s face with pride, years of worry melting away.

“Finally, a girl,” her mother mused.

“Would you like to see her quote, love?” her father asked.

In this universe, the first words soulmates said to each other were marked upon one’s arm. The Santiagos themselves were not soulmates, but they firmly believed love existed outside of soulmates.

Tiny Amelia ‘Amy’ Santiago was awake now, her brown eyes bright with life. Her mother unfurled the blanket to read the printed text on her little arm. 

Victor Santiago clapped a hand to his forehead, laughing in the relative quiet of their crowded home.

“Dear, it reads _‘do you want a donut?’"_

“The poor girl,” her mother responded, shaking her head and giggling. “Well, maybe her soulmate works at the police department!”

* * *

When Jacob Peralta was born, his father wasn’t at the hospital. His mother was beaming, makeup messy on her sweaty face, but she was cradling Jake in her arms. The nurses and doctor tried comforting Karen, but she simply waited for Roger while smiling at her son.

“Would you like to read the quote on his arm, ma’am?” The OB-GYN was named Frederick; though he was a bit gruff, he was clearly a kind and talented worker. He was good friends with the nurse, Dave, as Karen noticed.

“Yes, please. Thank you so much,” Karen answered. She was admittedly exhausted, having been in labor without her husband at her side, but one glance at Jacob’s face told her he was worth the world.

“No thank you, one’s enough.”

“Excuse me?” Karen asked, surprised. Was she _that_ tired?

“That’s what it says on your son’s arm, Mrs. Peralta,” Frederick answered. _“No thank you, one’s enough."_

“Let’s hope that’s not sexual,” Karen said. Roger arrived amidst the laughter, confused, and no one let him in on the joke.

* * *

When Amy Santiago was seven, she was the joke of her school. Everyone knew her as the ‘donut girl.’ Her best friend Kylie was a little cooler, with _‘good to finally meet you’_ written on her arm. Her brothers all had various, interesting quotes on their skin. Only Amy was stuck with a mundane tattoo.

She learned to work harder, learn faster, memorize better. People like her couldn’t afford to get left behind. Seven older brothers and a weird quote on her arm never made life easier. Her father taught her to organize binders and use flash cards until she knew words like the back of her hand.

Institution, _i-n-s-t-i-t-u-t-i-o-n,_ institution, she repeated in her head. Say it, spell it, say it.

Dad would take the whole family out for donuts when Amy got an A+ on a spelling test, joking she might meet her soulmate when they arrived.

Secretly, Amy didn’t really want to meet her soulmate. She was seven years old, with goals to achieve and plans to make. Amy wanted to skip a grade and get perfect attendance and decorate her room with her teacher’s gift of sparkly star decals. Love (and donuts, she thought, groaning) could wait.

* * *

When Jake Peralta was seven, he was on top of the world. His mom was his art teacher at school, and his dad was the local baseball coach. After school, Jake could come to the art room and practice with watercolors. He wasn’t too good, he knew, but Mom still put his pictures on the refrigerator. Meanwhile, Mom sat at the front of the room and put smiley-face stickers on the backs of finger paintings. Sometimes, Jake got to help.

Every Tuesday and Thursday night, Dad would drive Jake out to the baseball field for practice. This year, he was shortstop. All his teammates were jealous, especially Jenny Gildenhorn. Jake was kind of close with her, except they’d already started talking and she never once said _‘no thank you, one’s enough.'_

After games on Saturdays, Dad would take the whole team out to Sal’s for pizza. Jake loved Sal’s. It was an institution, he argued, even if he didn’t know the definition of _institution._ At least he knew how to spell it, after Mom helped him go through the spelling list from school.

One Thursday, Jake took the bus home from school. Mom said he couldn’t go to the art room after school today. Maybe it was a surprise, he thought. Jake talked with Jenny until the school bus reached his house.

“It’s Dad,” Mom murmured, as soon as Jake reached the door. She was waiting outdoors, crossing her arms nervously and kneeling down to hug Jake. “He left us.”

The house looked strange. New. Emptier. The closet in Jake’s parents’ room was only half-full now. No more plaid shirts, no more leather jackets, no more pilot’s hat. Jake’s dad called a moving truck and arranged to have all his stuff taken. The desk in the study was missing, along with most of his dad’s books. There was an old copy of “The Squad” left behind, but there couldn’t have been more than fifteen books in the faded shelf.

“What about baseball?” Jake asked. He couldn’t wrap his head around all of this.

“Jake, love, you can miss practice tonight.”

“But Mom!”

“Jake, there’s no coach. I’ll call Gina’s parents and see what they can do.”

“But they’re divorced!” Jake’s eyes widened. “Are you and Dad getting divorced, too?”

“I don’t know,” Mom replied. “Just go do your homework.”

“Fine, Mom.”

After Jake went to his room, Karen sat at the edge of the bed, crying. At least Roger left it behind, she begrudgingly thought. Then she looked up _‘Brooklyn job offers’_ and called in for a few minimum-wage-job interviews.

Karen’s mother, Jake’s Nana, eventually came to stay with them. She called Jake _‘Pineapples’_ and made better food than mayo-nut spoonsies. He still missed Sal’s.

Sometimes, when Mom and Nana had gone to sleep, Jake would grab a flashlight from his desk drawer. He would shine the light over his arm, reading and wondering.

_No thank you, one’s enough._

Why did his soulmate have to be so vague? One what?

Maybe Jake would just never find his soulmate.

* * *

Amy Santiago was seventeen years old, graduating from high school, the salutatorian of her class.

She did skip a grade: fourth grade, to be specific. She got perfect attendance, even if it meant dragging herself to school with the flu. And, yes, she put up the sparkly star decals in her room. Her brothers ripped them off after a couple months, but Mom bought more.

Last but not least, she hadn’t found her soulmate. That could wait. Amy Santiago still had a life to live.

“And now, a speech from our salutatorian, Miss Amelia Santiago.”

Taking a deep breath, Amy stood up and adjusted her cap. Wearing a thick, navy blue graduation gown, she began her speech. She practiced it for weeks on end, reciting it until her family grew sick of the opening lines and her brothers would mouth along with her. 

It was finally here.

* * *

Jake Peralta was eighteen, working a part-time job at the local grocery store, and he was sick of high school. At least he was leaving. He sat through the speeches, suffered through the marching band’s rendition of the _alma mater,_ and walked down the stage when his name was called.

His father sent a postcard, claiming he had an international flight (yeah, right, Quebec to Albany) and couldn’t make it. Jake’s mother and grandmother, along with Gina’s parents, were in the audience.

Gina brought her own party poppers, a cloud of confetti shrouding her as she passed, and gave a couple to Jake. He pulled the string and continued walking, leaving confetti all over the floor.

“Congratulations, sir,” the school principal said, handing Jake a diploma.

“Don’t mention it.”

He wasn’t supposed to reply, was he?

* * *

Amy Santiago was on the phone, messily running her fingers through her hair.

She was twenty-something by now, having graduated college with a bachelor’s in art history. Truthfully speaking, as much as she liked art history, it couldn’t compare to police work. After the six-month academy program, beat cop Amy Santiago spent a few years in the NYPD before taking a detective’s exam and easily passing.

Now, Captain McGintley of the 99th precinct was calling, asking Amy to interview for a detective’s position. Apparently he’d heard of her father and grandfather, both policemen themselves, and wanted her to come in for a preliminary interview.

“Well, whaddya say, Santiago? Ready to follow in your family’s footsteps?”

“Yes, sir. When may I interview, Captain McGintley?” Amy responded, careful to use ‘may’ instead of ‘can.’ She’d seen too many students fall into _that_ trap.

“Right away, ma’am. How about next Monday at 9 AM?”

“Will do. See you then!”

With that, Captain McGintley hung up. Amy let out a relieved sigh and headed to her bookshelf. Grabbing a navy blue binder, to represent the colors of New York’s Finest, Amy set about to prepare for her interview. She put in a resume, recommendation letters, arrest records, and the occasional photo.

She was ready.

* * *

Jake Peralta was in his late twenties, working in the 99th precinct alongside his partner and best friend Charles. This morning, he’d tried to bring the Nine-Nine a surprise. After accidentally ordering twelve dozen glazed donuts, instead of one dozen, Jake was frantic to give them away. 

_Typical cop move, FDNY Chief Boone scoffed, on Jake’s way to work._

There were dozens of donuts sitting in the backseat of Jake’s Mustang, and he was anxious to give them away somehow. Sergeant Jeffords refused because of the calories. Rosa and Charles only took one apiece. Gina was late. Hitchcock and Scully split one between themselves, saying they stayed up all night at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

_Great._

Amy Santiago marched into Captain McGintley’s office and shut the door. Her hair was up, her breathing was steady, and she was prepared to interview.

“Dude, who _is_ that?” Jake asked, frowning and pointing.

Charles shrugged and said, “You know McGintley’s been interviewing cops lately.”

The blinds were open, and Jake could see someone in a navy blue pantsuit holding a binder to her chest. 

“Quick, look away,” Jake hissed, and Charles followed. The interviewee was looking out the window with a hopeful grin on her face.

“Does she look familiar?” Charles wondered.

“Wouldn’t know,” Jake replied, nonchalant. “Turn away again,” he mouthed. The door to McGintley’s office cracked open, and the girl stepped out. 

“Very impressive, Miss Santiago,” the Captain said. “You’re hired.”

Amy grinned and breathed a sigh of relief.

Ever friendly, Charles blurted, “Nice to meet you! I’m Charles Boyle, this is my friend Jake Peralta. We’re detectives, so it looks like we’ll be working together!”

“Do you want a donut?” Jake interrupted. He was crossing his fingers, in hopes this girl somehow loved donuts. After all, she _was_ a detective.

Amy shook her head, smiling a little.

“No thank you, one’s enough. I had a donut with Captain McGintley in his office,” Amy replied, trying to be earnest. “Nice to meet you too! Charles, Jake, I’ll be leaving now. I start next week.”

* * *

Amy Santiago realized she met her soulmate after calling her mother.

“Did you meet anyone, Amy?”

“Uh, yes. The captain … Captain McGintley. He seems nice, but I’ve also heard he’s rather laid-back,” Amy responded.

“That’s all?”

“Oh, I met two detectives, too. Charles Boyle and … Jake Peralta. Charles was friendly. Jake just offered me a donut and looked sad when I declined. Captain McGintley already gave me one after the interview.”

“You seem pretty calm, Amelia.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Amy asked, her voice slower and more nervous. “I got the job.”

“Have you not noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“Jake offered you a donut.”

 _“And?”_ Amy replied, unsure.

“You think he’s your soulmate?”

Amy cursed, apologized, and said goodbye to her mother.

* * *

“Jake! Jake!”

“Charles, it is nine in the morning _on a Tuesday_ and we’re out of coffee. Unless you met the love of your life, please shush.”

“No! Listen! I think I really met her,”

“Uh-huh,” Jake said, nodding, half-asleep.

“Her name’s Genevieve,” Charles said. “And ...”

“And?”

 _“She could have been the one,”_ Charles finished, as Jake joined in without any emotion in his voice.

“Please, not again.” Jake pleaded. “You think, just because your soulmate quote is _‘excuse me’,_ everybody you meet could be your soulmate.”

“It’s not my fault the universe wants me to die alone,” Charles replied.

“Look,” Jake answered. “Fate can be cruel. My quote is _‘no thank you, one’s enough’,_ but you don’t see me waltzing around, thinking I could fall in love with anyone.”

“That’s your quote?”

“Yes, Charles, I _just_ said that.”

“You mean the exact same thing Detective Santiago said, yesterday morning, when she came in for an interview?”

Jake was speechless.

“I swear, Charles, you have to be kidding me.”

“I thought you’d be happy that I found your soulmate! She’s going to work here in a week,” said Charles.

“No, no, please be a different Santiago...”

“What’s your problem, Peralta?”

“Two things. First of all, 'what's your problem, Peralta?' is a really cool thing to say. Second of all, a Santiago cannot be my soulmate. Heard of Detective Victor Santiago? Descended from a long line of policemen? Eight children? _Six_ sons on the force?.”

“Maybe you could offer them some of your twelve dozen donuts,” Charles responded, smirking.

“If I date Amy, it’ll be like having a huge police family.”

“Again, not seeing the problem.” Charles answered.

“Charles, people like me weren’t meant to have families.”

Jake sunk his head into his hands, groaning.

“Isn’t the Nine-Nine your family?”

“No, not really. I mean, we have no civilian administrator, McGintley barely does anything, and I have no idea what’s going on with Sarge or any of the detectives,” Jake admitted. “Aside from you, I don’t know anyone on the squad. I just show up and do my job.”

“What about your _family_ family? You know, your mom and the Linettis.”

“I mean, I love my mom. I can’t thank her enough for raising me. But life isn’t easy on single mothers. She was always working, so I barely saw her. So it was just Nana or Gina’s mom with me, and then Nana was getting older and Mrs. Linetti was going through her divorce.”

Charles just nodded quietly.

“Who knows?” Jake wondered. “Maybe it’s a fluke. Santiago’s not my soulmate, and I can go back to my life.”

Charles couldn’t help but add in, “Santiago said your quote. To your face. You found her, after carrying those words around on your arm for years.”

“Lots of people say _no thank you, one’s enough,_ ” Jake protested.

“Look, I get it. Your quote’s kind of vague,” Charles conceded. “And you don’t want a family. It’s all that instability and worry, hanging over your head. But just take a look at me! My quote is _‘excuse me.’_ That hasn’t stopped me from going Full Boyle, from still searching and hoping.”

“So what do I do about Santiago?”

“Whatever happens, happens. Just get to know her naturally. What was the first thing you said to her, anyway?”

Jake laughed.

“I, uh, asked her if she wanted a donut. Remember I ordered too many?”

“Okay, okay,” Charles answered. “If Santiago’s quote is about donuts, she’s probably noticed by now. Just let time take its toll.”

“Alright, good advice. I’ll wait it out. Between Santiago and I, it’ll be light and breezy.”

“Santiago and _me.”_

“What?” Jake asked, turning to look at Boyle.

“Between Santiago and me. It’s proper grammar.”

“Fine,” Jake grumbled. “Let’s just hope Santiago isn’t a stickler for grammar. She probably isn’t, anyway, if we’re soulmates.”

* * *

“Dad! I got the job at the Ninety-Ninth precinct!”

“Amy, love, we call it the Nine-Nine.”

Cringing, Amy ran her fingers through her hair. One sentence into a phone call with her dad, and she already made a mistake.

“Okay, dad. I got hired at the Nine-Nine!”

“Congratulations, dear. I knew you could.”

Alright, this was much better.

“And what’s this I hear about meeting your _soulmate?”_

Here we go again, Amy thought. Four of her seven brothers had already texted, asking who the lucky guy was.

“Yeah, dad, I met him. His name is Detective Jake Peralta.”

_“Detective, hm?”_

Amy could practically hear the smirk in her father’s voice. He’d long joked Amy’s soulmate was a cop.

“Yes, dad. He’s a detective. You were right.”

“I’m so glad you two finally met,” Victor Santiago said. “Your brothers collectively owe me five hundred bucks!”

They were _betting_ on her soulmate?

“Anyway,” Dad continued. “Did you talk for long?”

“No,” Amy replied. “I’d just finished my interview, so I walked out of the office and Jake offered me a donut. He was surrounded by boxes of them.”

“Seems he was waiting to meet you.”

“I wouldn’t know, Dad,” Amy confessed. “Captain McGintley gave me a donut in his office, so I said no to Jake.”

“You said no?”

Amy would bet another five hundred dollars that her father was now frowning.

“Well, I didn’t realize he was my soulmate right then and there,” Amy said, defending herself. “I called Mom after I got the job, and she helped me notice.”

“How many times a day do people offer you donuts?” Dad asked.

“ _Dad!_ I got the job, I’m seeing him again next Monday.”

“Sorry, I’m just excited. You know you’re the first of the Santiago kids to meet their soulmate, right?”

“I am?”

Her father couldn’t see, but Amy was dancing around her apartment.

“Yes, you are. Anyway, I have to go now. It’s dinnertime. Good luck on Monday with Jake! I hope I meet him sometime,” her father finished.

“Bye, Dad! Love you!”

“Love you too, Amy.”

* * *

“Wait, she doesn’t _know_ you two are soulmates?” Karen Peralta asked, crossing her arms.

“Mom, I guess she knows, but I’ve known her for years. I don’t want to bring it up and make everything uncomfortable,” Jake said defensively. “Besides, we’re total opposites! She’s all put-together and grandmother-y.”

To make his point more clear, he walked toward the kitchen. His mother followed behind.

“You see _that?”_ Jake fiercely pointed to a cupboard.

“Yes?” Mom replied. She raised an eyebrow unsurely. “That’s my cupboard. It just holds plates and saucers. Jake, you know I don’t have any fine china.”

“Amy Santiago is the kind of person who has a china cabinet,” Jake argued. “I’ve heard her bragging about it to Boyle. It’s just a box full of plates you never use! It’s useless! I can’t date someone who refuses to use stuff because it’s too _pretty.”_

“In her defense, china _is_ rather nice. It’s, you know, floral,” Mom responded, shrugging. “Anyway, two people can be different and still fall in love.”

“She’s _too_ different,” Jake went on. “She likes binders and pantsuits and reading the captain’s lips through his window blinds.”

“I thought you said Captain McGintley never spoke.”

“Mom! Keep up,” Jake insisted. “Amy’s worked at the Nine-Nine for several years. McGintley left. Now we have Captain Holt.”

“So you’ve known her for years,” Mom said. “How close are you two?”

“I mean, we’re good friends. We have this ongoing bet to see who gets more arrests in a year, and I just went over to her apartment for Thanksgiving,” Jake answered. “But still! I can’t imagine living with her. You should see her china cabinet, Mom. It’s flowery and there are doilies everywhere.”

“So, _aside_ from the godforsaken china cabinet you can’t get over, you two are pretty similar.”

“We are?” Jake asked, tilting his head.

“Well, you two are detectives. You love your jobs, and you’re both competitive, because you have the bet. I get it, you’re not as organized or as formal as she may be, but isn’t that a good thing?”

_“Yeah, Mom, you know how people have always praised me for being unorganized and, uh, un-formal.”_

“Jake,” his mother said, grinning. “You balance each other out.”

“I guess,” he admitted.

“You know, you don’t have to bring up the soulmate thing. I doubt you two are in love. Just keep it light and breezy.”

“Why does everybody say that?” asked Jake.

“Who knows?”

* * *

Amy Santiago didn’t know what time it was, but she didn’t need to, either. She loved nighttime, when Brooklyn became black-and-white, illuminated by the easy glow of streetlights and traffic. Jake sat not far from her, wearing his leather jacket and comfortably holding a bag of peanuts.

Since Amy’s last birthday, Mom and Dad had bugged her about soulmates. All those ‘biological clock’ worries were creeping up inside her. Amy wanted children, her parents knew, but she didn’t know what direction her personal life was going in.

“You alright?” Jake softly asked. 

“Yeah, just stressed,” Amy answered.

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s tough,” Amy replied, smiling a little.

“That’s okay, most problems are.”

Since finding out Jake was (supposedly) the love of her life, Amy had doubted the possibility they could ever fall in love. Every time he said something like _‘noice’_ or _‘smort’,_ Amy wanted to beg the universe for a new soulmate. Sure, Jake was a good cop, and he had nice plaid shirts and kind eyes, but he was in crushing debt. He had problems concentrating. He hardly slept. He jumped to too many conclusions, too quickly.

Yes, Amy liked Jake’s confidence: the bad jokes with which he ruined conversations, his unabashed adoration for the Die Hard franchise. People like Jake Peralta simply need to learn their lessons before adapting and improving. They took so much _time,_ though, Amy grumbled.

Amy thought she might as well ask him about being soulmates. How many chances did she and Jake get to talk alone?

“You know how I’m competitive?” she asked, tightly crossing her fingers.

_“No, wait. You’re competitive?”_

“Shush,” she admonished. “Anyway, I’m the first in my family to find my soulmate. My parents betted on me and everything. I, um, think it’s you. Remember we met and you offered me a donut? Would you mind taking off your jacket so I could check?”

“We’re soulmates?”

Amy sensed falsehood in Jake’s voice.

“Please don’t tell me you knew all this time.”

“Charles told me the day after your interview,” Jake confessed, looking at the ground. “He noticed before I did.”

Burying her head in her hands, Amy couldn’t catch her breath, purely happy, alone together with Jake Peralta.

“I’ll show you my mark if you’ll do the same,” Jake promised, already starting to unzip his jacket.

“Peralta, you have a deal.”

They huddled together, outstretching their arms.

Jake started laughing. “Amy, I’m so sorry the first thing I said to you was _do you want a donut?_ ”

“Tell that to my seven brothers,” she responded. “It’s our family inside joke now, since cops love donuts and all. At least I found my soulmate ― you ― before they did.”

“Cool,” Jake said. “Cool cool cool cool cool.”

“So, do you want to date?” Amy asked, trying to be casual.

“I mean, I just don’t think I’m in the right place to date you, y’know? We’re not ready to do anything romantic-stylez. Emphasis on the z.”

“Yeah, I completely understand. We’re not ready to be a couple or anything. We’ll just be light and breezy at work.”

Amy nodded after she finished talking, typing up a memo for herself.

_January 14th, 2014. Detective Peralta is my soulmate._

There. Now, no Santiago could take her title as first-to-find-their-soulmate.

“Hey,” Jake interrupted. “You want to do more stakeouts together?”

“No thank you, one’s enough,” Amy joked.

“Nerd.”

“I’m just kidding. The truth is stakeouts aren’t always great, and sometimes they suck. But they suck a little less when I get to do them with you,” Amy replied, blushing.

“Thanks, Santiago.”

* * *

When Jake Peralta was in his thirties, he moved in with Amy Santiago. He brought his _Die Hard_ poster, all the hoodies and plaid shirts Amy loved, and everything else from his old life.

(Except the grey towel. He was glad to give that up.)

Their first night officially living together, Jake and Amy played Monopoly until the early hours of the morning. Amy was wearing a sweatshirt, laying on the bed with her elbows poking into the mattress. Jake had long since rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

“Ha! Seven! Suck it, babe,” Jake rolled the dice and easily maneuvered his top hat around the ‘go to jail’ square. “I’m so glad I missed that spot. Whenever I go to jail, I never roll doubles or get a pass card. I’m just stuck there for, like, fifteen years.”

“Yeah, but you landed on my land! Pay up,” Amy said, smirking and holding her hand out.

Jake sighed, peeling a few paper dollars from his stack and handing them over. “Don’t boyfriends get discounts?”

“Nope.”

“Hey, how long have we been playing?” Jake asked.

“I’m not too sure. I’d guess like four, five hours,” Amy said, shrugging. Without a second thought, she shook the dice and continued the game.

“Ames, you rolled double sixes. You have to re-roll before moving on,” Jake explained.

“That’s not a rule!”

 _“Yes, it is._ If you get a double, you have to roll again, and you go to jail if you get three doubles in a row.”

“Blasphemy,” Amy complained. “I’m looking it up right now.”

“Your phone’s dead. Use mine,” Jake offered.

“Thanks,” Amy said, before putting her thumb on the home button and going to Chrome.

Jake sat waiting, crossing his arms and smiling, until Amy glared and showed him the Monopoly™ official rules page.

“I hate you and your vast memory of board game rules,” she grumbled.

“Yeah, try playing any game with Gina,” Jake shot back. “She finds every loophole ever. Once, in Scrabble, she flipped over normal letters and pretended they were blank tiles. I couldn’t find an official definition for ‘blank tile’ so she got to use them.”

“Remind me never to play Scrabble with Gina.” Amy picked up the die, vigorously shaking them and letting them fall onto the board. “So _that’s_ why you’ve memorized every board game rule.”

“Double threes, Ames. One more set of doubles and you go to jail,” Jake pointed out.

Amy picked up the die again, shaking them over her left shoulder and wishing for anything but doubles.

“Snake-eyes. Double ones. You’re under arrest, Santiago,” Jake said, grinning. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be usedㅡ”

“Shut it,” Amy groaned, marching her thimble figurine over to the jail square. “If I can get three consecutive doubles, I can probably roll doubles again … right?”

“That’s what everyone always says,” Jake responded. He rolled a five and a two, moving his top hat around the board. “Chance! My lucky day,”

Amy pulled the first card from the pile and read it aloud. “Go to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect your two hundred dollars.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, while Jake frowned and reluctantly joined her in the makeshift jail.

“Hey, Ames, as the official banker, I bet ten of the bank’s dollars that you get out first,” Jake wagered.

“Okay, ” Amy reasoned. “So, if I get out first, I get ten Monopoly bucks?”

“Yeah. And if _I_ get out first, I get the money instead.”

“Sounds good to me. We’re basically taking money from the bank, at no risk to ourselves, right?”

Jake smiled, removing a ten from the bank. “C’mon, babe, the faster you roll, the faster you get out of jail,” he ushered.

Jake and Amy quickly alternated, dropping the die with disappointment and passing them along to the other.

“Why does this take so long?” Amy demanded. She rolled a one and a two, cursing a little. “I was so close!”

“Title of our sex tape,” Jake mumbled. He let go of the die one at a time, crossing his fingers as he did so. “Four and … two. Just my luck.” 

Amy tilted her wrist, checking her watch. Her eyes widened as she realized how late it was. “Jake, it’s four in the morning.”

“You don’t want to stop, do you?” he inquired, making puppy eyes.

“No, not at all!” Amy responded, calming her boyfriend’s fears. “I just have to take out my contacts and brush my teeth.”

“And put in your retainer, moisturize, brush your hair, all that,” Jake replied earnestly. “You know how you get when you forget.”

Amy rolled her eyes and trudged toward the bathroom. “You coming?”

“I’ll just shower,” Jake answered. “And I’ll multi-task by brushing my teeth in there.”

When Jake arrived in the bathroom, Amy was sitting on the toilet and braiding her hair. “Is this stress-braiding?”

“No, babe,” she replied, turning toward him. “I read it online. If I braid my hair before bed, it’s easier to brush in the morning.”

“Got it.”

While Amy brushed her teeth, Jake undressed and got into the shower.

“Jake, you forgot a towel,” Amy yelled, her voice attempting to transcend the noise of the water.

_“What?”_

The water slowed until he was standing frigid in the shower, opening the curtain a crack to shout. Amy was nowhere to be seen.

“Ames, where’d you go?” he tried again.

After a whopping seventy-two seconds, Amy returned with a soft blue towel in hand. “I didn’t _leave,_ you just forgot a towel. I was getting you one from the linen closet,”

“Linen closet,” Jake scoffed. “Pretentious much?”

“Sorry I have a room to store fabrics,” Amy retorted. “Remind me to show you my china cabinet. You’ll hate that.”

“How did you know aboutㅡ”

“Your mom called to congratulate us.”

* * *

Jake was now out of the shower, wearing the towel around his waist. “Hey, before I forget, do you want to get breakfast in a couple hours?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Amy nodded, looking in the mirror while spreading dollops of face cream on her cheeks. “Where do you want to go?”

Handing Amy her glasses, Jake asked, “Waffles?”

Amy took the frames from Jake, easily slipping them on. “No, I was thinking something more special for our first morning after moving in. How about donuts?”

“No thank you, one’s enough,” Jake said, doing a poor impression of Amy’s voice.

_“Ha, ha.”_


	2. emotions run high (pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You see, in this world, soulmates can feel each other’s feelings. Of course, emotions can be confusing. They’re hard to pinpoint. Luckily, you can hear their thoughts if their emotions are strong enough.”_  
>     
> They are the voices in each other's heads, the rampant feelings they can't quite blame on themselves. They're soulmates through and through.

Victor Santiago’s heart no longer jumps when he approaches his (many) children to have ‘The Talk.’ Of course, this only applies the time he meets with his youngest, Amy. By now, he’s given ‘the talk’ to all seven of his sons. 

Why would he, a retired detective from the NYPD, fear the prospect of speaking with his seven-year-old daughter? Her eyes still brighten when she walks into her father’s vast office, the doors always open for family to enter.

“Amy, I wanted to talk to you today about soulmates,” he begins with a gentle grin.

His daughter is comfortably sitting in his office chair (the Winchester 3000, best in the precinct), her legs not even touching the ground. Amy shoots her father a shy smile and adjusts the black scrunchie holding one of her own pigtails. “Yes, Dad?”

“First of all, do you know what a soulmate _is?”_

“I know! I know!” Amy raises her hand in the air, her smile widening. “It’s, like, a matching puzzle piece. For a person. They can be tough to find, but they fit perfectly.”

“Exactly!” Victor replies. “You’re so smart, Amelia.” 

He easily removes a silver star sticker from the sheet on his desk, pressing it to his daughter’s cheek. Amy excitedly giggles and runs two fingers over it. “Love you, Dad.”

“Now, do you know how someone _finds_ their soulmate?” Victor asks.

“No, I don’t really know,” Amy frowns, biting the inside of her cheek. “D’you just guess?”

“Truth is, honey, it’s hard to know,” explains Victor, crossing his arms. “You see, in this world, soulmates can feel each other’s feelings. Of course, emotions can be confusing. They’re hard to pinpoint. Luckily, you can hear their thoughts if their emotions are strong enough.”

“Oh, that’s so cool! When does it start happening? Does it ever stop? Can you ever _talk_ to your soulmate, ‘cause you can hear their thoughts?” Amy asks, her questions traveling a mile a minute.

“Whoa, one question at a time,” Victor laughs. “People don’t exactly know what age soulmates start feeling each other’s emotions, but they assume it’s around ages six to ten. The feelings never really stop, but they do fade if both you and your soulmate fall in love with other people. If you’re lucky, hon, you can talk to your soulmate about feelings, if they’re strong enough. Some people can only rarely talk to their soulmates, and other do it constantly. Just depends on the people and the strength of the emotions.”

“That makes sense, even if it sucks for the unlucky ones,” Amy nods. “But what if you mix your feelings up with theirs? Also, how do you know if you find your soulmate?”

“It’s hard to explain, but you can usually tell if your mood changes suddenly,” Victor rationalizes. “When you meet your soulmate, there usually isn’t a ‘eureka’ moment. People are usually pulled to become closer to their soulmates, though, and can realize over time if their soulmates’ emotions match their own. The universe helps by leaving you little mementoes from your soulmate as you get closer to them. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, Dad. You’re a good teacher.”

“Thanks, Amy.” Victor Santiago can’t help but smile.

Amy raises her hand yet again. “Oh, just one more questions. Are you and Mom soulmates?”

“Yeah, we are,” Victor confirms, blushing.

“I figured,” Amy reaches for the stickers and presses one onto her father’s cheek. He lets Amy decorate his police badge in stars, too, and she says they match when she finishes.

* * *

The first time Jake Peralta notices his soulmate’s emotions, he’s annoyed beyond belief. He goes so far as to march across the street and ask for Regina Linetti (of course, he asks his mom first. He isn’t _that_ rebellious.)

Using Gina’s full name will make him seem more formal, right?

“What is your deal?” Gina demands, standing at the front door and putting both her hands on her hips. “You _know_ I just got home from dance practice!”

“This is important, Gina,” Jake insists. “I felt my soulmate’s feelings for the first time! Can I come in?”

Gina immediately perks up at the mention of Jake’s soulmate. “Of course you can come in! Mom’s on the phone, so she’ll leave us alone.”

“Thanks, Gina.”

“How’d it feel, Jake? Are they cool? I wish I could contact _my_ soulmate.”

“I dunno,” Jake kicks his sneakers off and runs upstairs with Gina to her room, silently waving to Mrs. Linetti. “I think I hate my soulmate. They’re aggravating!”

“Uh-oh,” Gina frowns. “You sure you didn’t just annoy yourself and mix the feelings up? It happened to Todd Cowan last week, remember?”

“Positive,” he snaps.

“Tell me everything,” Gina sits down on her bed and pats the space next to her. Jake takes her up on the offer, resting his head on her shoulder as he mopes. He shoves his Buzz Lightyear backpack (it’s cool, no matter what some people say) onto the ground and starts to rant.

“I was just riding my bike home from school when I felt this voice in my head, you know? It was frantic and 一 and almost angry,” Jake recounts. “So I started pedaling faster, ‘cause I just felt like I had to, and I got home super fast. Then I just think ‘I really need to do my homework and double check it.’ My soulmate tricked me, Gina! I finished the math problems Mrs. Finn assigned us, and I even showed my work like she insisted! Double-checking homework _sucks.”_

By now, Gina is laughing so hard she can’t talk.

“It’s not funny!” Jake protests. “My so-called soulmate is my polar opposite!”

Gina rolls her eyes once she catches her breath. “Yeah, they’re _not_ procrastinating and _not_ distracted. You poor thing. D’ya need a hug and a cup of hot cocoa so you can get over the pain of getting your work done?”

“But you don’t understa-”

“Kids?” Mrs. Linetti calls from downstairs. “You want something to eat or drink? Sorry I was on the phone just now!”

As upset as Jake is, he can’t say no to food. Racing down the stairs with Gina right behind him, he spots a tray of Mrs. Linetti’s famous lemon bars. They’re practically to die for, and an entire plate of them sits right in front of his eyes. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replies, excitedly biting into a lemon bar and feeling the sugar course through his bloodstream. “Would you mind if I took some of these home?”

“Oh, go ahead!” Mrs. Linetti encourages. “Tell your mom I said hi. Does she want my recipe?”

“I’ll tell her, and I bet she’d like the recipe very much,” Jake promptly answers, trying to be on his best behavior. It isn’t every day the Linettis offer him a family recipe (at least, he _thinks_ it is.)

“C’mon, Jake,” Gina groans, beckoning him toward the stairs once again. “We have math homework from Mrs. Finn, remember?”

“Coming!”

Once they’re upstairs, Gina pulls out her sheet of long division problems and finds a crumpled page of notebook paper. “Can you check my homework once I’m done, Jake?”

“Oh, I thought the homework thing was just a diversion,” Jake groans. “Is today National Homework Day or something?”

 _No, that’s April 2nd,_ a voice in his head quips.

“Gina! My soulmate is talking to me now!” Jake whispers, afraid to let them in on the conversation. They’ve already caused enough damage, he believes.

“Ooh, what’re they saying?” Gina asks. “Do they know the answers to the math questions?”

“No,” Jake scowls. “They just informed me that National Homework Day is _actually_ a holiday. It’s in April.”

“Your soulmate is such a nerd. Tell me if they say anything else, kay? I have to get started on problem one. D’you know what seventy-nine divided by eight is?”

“I do, but I’m certainly not letting _you_ know.”

“You think you’re getting Linetti family lemon bars with _that_ attitude, punk?”

“I’m not a punk! My soulmate is obsessed with homework, goose. Go easy on me.”

“Fine,” Gina concedes. “Please, just show me how to number one? We don’t _all_ have motivational soulmates who have good grades.”

* * *

“Come _on,”_ Amy mutters, trying to block out the voice in her head. “Come on … please, just go away.” Her voice grinds into a growl as she desperately rubs at her temples, sitting in the backseat in the Santiago family minivan. Her seatbelt barely works anymore, covered in sticky fingerprints and spilled blue soda, but at least she’s out of the baby carseat. Being the youngest child isn’t easy, she knows; her brothers teased her over the carseat for weeks.

“Whassa matter, Ames?” her older brother Luis asks, squished in next to her. “Y’alright?”

Scowling, Amy mutters, “I suppose. Just annoyed for no reason. My stupid soulmate won’t shut up.”

“Amy, I didn’t know you had begun that process yet!” her mom calls from the front seat, where she’s currently whizzing past trees and houses at exactly eight miles over the speed limit. Amy _would_ say something, but she’s been through this whole ‘five mile safety zone’ thing far too many times.

“Mom, I told you about this a long time ago, remember?” Amy pleads. “I’ve known my soulmate for _ages_ now. Probably, like, two or three years, to be honest.”

All conversation stills in the family minivan, nothing but resounding beeps and the occasional expletive shouted from open car windows. Amy locks her knees without rhyme or reason, just _hoping_ her mom remembers learning about this significant milestone in her only daughter’s life.

“You weren’t listening, were you?”

Slamming on the brakes to avoid a nearby car, Amy’s mother winces a little. “Sorry, hon, it must’ve slipped my mind. You know how busy it is at home. My fault.”

“It’s fine,” Amy groans, sure that her life is never as fine as she says. Typical for her age, she thinks, biting back the part of the truth her parents don’t want to know. “I just kinda hate my soulmate.”

From the passenger seat he’s so near and dear to, her oldest brother Vic calls. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a soulmate, sis?”

“I guess.” Amy frowns, crossing her arms and reaching into her constellation backpack for her blue spiral: her soulmate book, to keep track of her thoughts and feelings. “I just assumed they’d be a perfect fit for me. Hence, the whole _‘mate’_ thing.”

She takes out her favorite set of pens, desperately trying to get some notes in about what her soulmate’s thinking. Some book they’re re-reading for the tenth time, she thinks. Written by some fellow like ‘Logan’ or ‘Bogan.’ It isn’t clear, but Amy can tell it’s historical fiction, so she’s a little more appeased, but the soulmate _cheers_ when the characters get into a gunfight.

“Are they that bad?” her brother Manny asks from ahead, head buried in a copy of ‘Peanuts’ strips and only half-listening to the conversation. His backpack is stuffed with library books (“they’re overdue, kiddo!” Dad shouted last week) and his head full of daydreams.

“Yup,” Amy confirms, looking up from her soulmate notebook, ink still drying in the acrid, junk-food-reminiscent minivan air. “They’re super immature, they never focus on one thing, they hate being organized… so, they’re completely unlike me! I can’t be myself when my dumb soulmate’s feelings go in the other direction.”

She doesn’t quite know what this ‘Bogan’ fellow did to deserve the affections of her soulmate, so she keeps her mouth shut for the meantime. Maybe she’ll tell her family later; learning Mom forgot put a damper on her attitude toward open conversation.

“Woah, woah, Amy. Your soulmate is not ‘dumb.’ Take that back, Amelia,” Mom warns, resisting the urge to honk at a silver SUV up ahead, teeth gnashed with conflict.

“Yes, Mom,” Amy begrudgingly grumbles.

Vic smirks. As the oldest Santiago brother (technically, he’s Victor Santiago, Junior, but nobody calls him that), he pretty much _always_ something to add to family discussions. “Hold on, Mom. You’re okay with Amy’s soulmate reading violent books, but she can’t even call them dumb? Biased much?”

“Well, I can’t control her thoughts! I can tell my children what language not to use, but I can’t do anything to Amy’s soulmate.” Mrs. Santiago absentmindedly swats at the shotgun seat, knocking Vic’s baseball cap a few degrees off. Shrugging, Vic readjusts his cap and returns to his position of defense or coolness or _whatever_ he calls it 一 arms crossed, back slouched, a ghost of a frown present on his face.

“She’s got a point,” Luis says. “It’s not Mom’s fault if Amy has a weird, lazy soulmate, right?”

Amy crosses her fingers, hoping her soulmate can’t tell her whole family is gossiping, but the soulmate is evidently too engrossed in a drug heist to care. The only thing Amy knows about drugs is what she learned at school (just say no, she recites, fresh in her memory from last week’s assembly), but her soulmate is filling her in with all sorts of facts she doesn’t want.

She sticks her fingers in her ears, trying to block out the sound of her soulmate narrating from whatever book they’re reading, until she gives up and simply reaches for the soulmate notebook.

Thank goodness she learned Ford improved shorthand for fun a month ago. Sure, she did it to write faster, but it _doubles_ as a secret code with which to guard her family from ever knowing their innocent little angel is learning about drugs. Amy fills her journal with codified script, explaining ‘weed’ and ‘mary jane’ are actually the same thing.

To Amy’s delight, her soulmate, whoever they are, keeps reading from the book. Even as Mom parks the minivan in the garage and the Santiagos spill out of the car into the house, Amy keeps her head low and keeps scribbling notes (it’s for research, she claims) about the various cases detectives solve. Rushing to her room, which isn’t _actually_ hers because she shares it with Luis and Manny, Amy sits down at the little desk and keeps writing.

She keeps taking notes, feeling glad she did today’s homework already, until a comment jars her perception of this ‘Bogan’ guy.

_“G’night, sweetheart,” Quigg said, winking. “Need someone to walk you home?”_

Amy Santiago’s stomach drops, and Jake Peralta’s with it. A grimace rises on Amy’s face, a tightness stirring in her chest at what she just heard. Jake isn’t sure why, but he tears the page out of _The Squad_ and shoves it in his bedside drawer. Almost intentionally, _robotically, _he shoves the book back onto his father’s bookshelf, still stripped bare from the abandonment a few years ago. Adding a tally mark to a fragile index card, he marks fifteen books read.__

____

_‘Sixteen’_ never quite makes its way onto the list.

* * *

Jake Peralta doesn’t really know if he likes boys.

 _There,_ he said it, Jake sighs, a weight somehow lifted off of his chest for a moment before it falls right back. It reminds him of a prank Keith Pembroke started a couple months back, scampering around the halls to elevate and drop students’ backpacks. Up and down, weightless and heavy again, binders and textbooks dragging kids down as Keith ran away and fist-bumped his friends.

Except liking boys is much, _much_ worse than feeling the drag of his backpack pull him down. Liking boys is dangerous 一 not _Die Hard_ dangerous, cool and mysterious 一 but dark and quiet, guilt seeping into his lungs, iron and lead weighing him down when he can’t quite think of what to say. Liking boys feels alien, like he just noticed the water he’d been swimming in his entire life.

He doesn’t know if this is who he is, who he wants to be. Nobody thinks ‘deviant’ when they’re asked who they want to be when they grow up.

Liking boys is breathless, yes, falling head over heels, scuffing his shoes running after unattainable hope, but a furtive sting in his heart keeps him lucid among all this. To teenage Jake Peralta, the very act of liking boys is set apart from him. Girls like boys, he was taught: girls who wear their boyfriends’ jerseys on the nights of football games, girls who pass secret notes in class but are somehow never caught.

He wasn’t ever meant to join that demographic, he thinks with a grimace, beating himself up inside for _maybe_ thinking about kissing a boy.

Though he’d never tell a soul, Jake dreams about getting into a car with a boy (if he’s lucky, a _boyfriend,_ even) and just driving away from this 一 from school, where he hears the people in his grade yell ‘that’s so gay’ and not know what it means at all. They say it to boys with high-pitched voices or nice handwriting, boys who put on foundation in the morning or go to theater rehearsal after school. Driving sounds idyllic right about now.

Jake suspects this stems from his soulmate. This one thought worsens everything else, plunging him further into a cesspool of doubt and mindlessness. Obviously, whoever they are (yes, _they,_ he’s a bit wary of gendered terms right in the middle of this gay crisis, okay?!), they like boys. _He’s_ a boy. That part’s easy.

Sometimes, when he can’t sleep after a full day of homework and video games, he can’t help but curse his soulmate out for making him question this again. For making him walk down the same, terrible road every day, wondering what’ll top his wedding cake. For keeping him tied down, his heart so confused it must be bound, scarred, rejected.

Maybe his soulmate’s a boy, maybe they aren’t. He can’t know for sure.

Jake gets in the habit of practicing his responses. _My girlfriend, my wife:_ an endless mantra, a tongue-twister he can’t decipher as fiction or not. It’s not like Jake _doesn’t_ like girls, because girls are funny and pretty and kind and exciting, generous and bold and strong 一 he thinks he just might _die_ when he walks into his bar mitzvah and he sees Jenny Gildenhorn on the dance floor in a silvery blue dress-

But then Eddie Fung swoops in, wearing a three-button tux with a wine-red bowtie, and Jake’s head is _spinning,_ hopeless, some foreign sort of jealousy suddenly churning through his nervous system. Nervous is right. He can’t tell who looks better, Eddie or Jenny, and Jake only thinks _she said she’d dance with me_ as envy stirs in his chest.

He walks away, leaves it all behind, the last notes of his (now) least favorite song trickling away as Jenny keeps dancing, her arms around Eddie’s neck as she whispers into his ear.

* * *

The day of Jake’s bar mitzvah, Amy Santiago stays in bed until 10 A.M. Her brothers have tried their hardest to make her move, nudging her shoulders and pulling her blankets back, but their little sister is locked in a nightmare. Time and again, she violently turns in bed, muttering a few lyrics to Air Supply’s _‘I’m All Out of Love’_ and twisting the bedsheets around herself. Her parents don’t think much of it, seeing as their sons regularly complain about Amy’s sleeptalking habit.

They simply come to her room once she awakes, carrying a cold cloth. Amy cries into her mother’s cashmere sweater, wiping sweat from her forehead and asking why soulmates have to exist. Her father tells her he doesn’t know, but that there is always good, even in hurtful, lonely, _desperate_ places.

A few hundred miles away from Amy’s childhood home, Jake’s stomach stops hurting. He gains the courage to leave his mother’s closet 一 his thinking place, where it’s so dark he can’t see his hand two feet ahead of him 一 and it feels like cashmere rubs against his cheek as he crawls out from behind the clothes his dad left.

* * *

Amy Santiago doesn’t quite know if she likes girls the way some of her brothers do. She says _some_ and not _all_ due to the time she walked in Luis kissing his friend Daniel; she remembers the stone-cold fear in his eyes as he sat her down and told her he wasn’t ashamed, just scared.

She knows better than to ask about the difference.

Amy knows not to assume, especially when her heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings when Ashley Orchard walks into school. She and Ashley sit across from each other in homeroom and English. Every day, when they do a warm-up writing exercise, Ashley whispers words in Amy’s ear and asks her to spell them. Their teacher smiles over, seeing Ashley’s desk dotted with neon-green post-it’s, and Amy finds herself reading the dictionary throughout the school year (just in case Ashley needs to spell _effervescence_ or _petrichor_ or _infinitesimal.)_

Everyone gets girl crushes, right?

After summer begins, Ashley invites Amy over for a party and she thinks she might just faint. Amy walks into Ashley’s living room, which feels bigger than her whole _house,_ and Mrs. Orchard hands her an embroidered pillowcase with her name on it. Being friends with Ashley sparks a strange love in Amy’s heart, as she and all their classmates watch High School Musical and eat popcorn by the TV. It’s idyllic.

When Amy gets home, she writes about every detail of the party (“I didn’t know people could invite others over for no _reason,_ diary!”) and tapes in all the photographs they took. Her brothers roll their eyes when she gushes about Troy and Gabriella. Amy’s journal grows thick under the weight of her momentos - mostly sticky notes with words like ‘ecstatic’ and ‘egregious’ written in her own handwriting, and Polaroids with silly captions.

“Melanie Adams brought nail polish!” reads one, as Ashley shows off a mock French manicure. The trail of white polish around her fingernails is rough, but it’s fancy nonetheless. Off to the side, cut off by the photograph’s frame, Amy makes a peace sign with pink-and-white polka-dot nails.

Another is captioned “Attempted all-nighter <3”, as Amy and her friends crowd around the clock in Ashley’s kitchen. It reads 11:06 P.M., a time unheard of for middle-schoolers, and the flash of the camera illuminates the girls’ eyes as they pose by sticking out their tongues.

“Ready for freshman year!” says the last, picturing Ashley’s fireplace as old math homework sits in embers. MacKenzie Hollis is holding their copy of ‘A Wrinkle in Time’ the way she’d toast marshmallows. Amy remembers silently grimacing, frozen in place. She didn’t dare burn herself over a book (or look bad in front of Ashley Orchard, who may as well be a celebrity to Amy.)

Ashley Orchard is the queen of eighth grade, as silly as it sounds.

She likes hearing the latest gossip, winking at her friends when boys approach them, and declaring who her bridesmaids will be at age fourteen. Her best friends, Melanie and MacKenzie, are the same way. When soft-spoken Teddy Wells moves to town, they elbow each other and pass secret notes in class. Amy knows they think he’s cute but boring (they honestly think Pig Latin is a foreign language) and keeps her mouth shut.

It’s not as if she doesn’t _like_ boys. Boys, as long as they’re not the polo-wearing, Kik-sending menaces her brothers grumble about at home, are fine. It’s just that Amy doesn’t always _want_ fine; she wants to tell everyone she might be bisexual without hearing their shocked gasps. She can imagine the remarks now.

_“But you don’t look gay!”_

_“That’s not a real sexuality, you know.”_

And the exhausting _“I think girls who like girls are so hot.”_

Those are simply some of the reasons Amy keeps quiet and walks on, questioning everything until her second-guessing becomes more like third or fourth or fifth...

After the party, as Amy enters high school and enrolls in algebra II, human geography and marching band, she never talks to Ashley anymore. They no longer have any classes together. There are chance encounters in the hallway, perhaps a sentence or two exchanged in the library, but Amy stops reading the dictionary so much. The embroidered pillowcase is forgotten in a drawer. The diary is pushed away, full of stories she finished telling.

On the other side of New York, Jake crosses his fingers for his soulmate. He’s since decided he’s bisexual, having told Nana (“my grandson is so wonderful!”), Gina (“I’ll always be here for you, Pineapples”) and his mom (“I’m so happy you feel comfortable telling me!)

Coming out is a relief. The other burden off of Jake’s chest is the moment he realizes he no longer has ‘Breaking Free’ or ‘Bop to the Top’ constantly stuck in his head.

* * *

Amy’s diaries tell her story.

She is thirteen, worrying about scuffing her yellow Vans and piercing her ears for her birthday. Her mother says she can’t wear makeup for another two years. Amy stays up on weekends listening to pop music and doing math homework in black pen. It’s always more exciting in ink, for some reason, and she corrects her mistakes with a neon pink highlighter. She doesn’t need it very often, bringing her a surge of confidence. She ignores the procrastination her soulmate wants. They’re better than that.

She is sixteen, never worrying about homecoming or prom anymore. Amy doesn’t wear makeup even if her parents let her 一 too expensive, too time-consuming. She wakes up early for band rehearsal, spends all day running in between classes only to spend her afternoons tutoring students. Half of them are older than her. Every Friday night, Amy grabs her mellophone (yeah, the French horns have to switch instruments to march, it’s a pain) and rushes onto the football field. Her soulmate wonders why it’s so much easier to fall asleep in class once Amy enrolls in band.

She is nineteen, fresh out of high school and already working toward her college degree. Much to her parents’ chagrin, Amy majors in art history. She reads faster than her colleagues, bikes to class and locks the chain before anyone else is in through the door. Amy takes notes on obscure paint mixtures and Caravaggio’s _chiaroscuro._ During class, her head fills with thoughts about forensics 一 the angle from which a bullet enters its victim, different chemicals used to detect blood, how long drugs can stay in someone’s system 一 and Amy double-majors because she falls in love with her soulmate’s game.

She is twenty-two, graduating from college as her parents cheer and brothers smile in pride. Amy has a cap, gown, and class ring, everything short of a letterman as she walks down the stage and poses for pictures. Her soulmate, a hundred miles away, shudders with joy as Amy delivers her salutatorian speech. Words echo, parents clap, and Amy smiles so wide her face hurts. Next stop, police academy.

They meet when she’s a new recruit at the Nine-Nine, and she feels a spark when he shakes her hand. She thinks nothing of it. He notices she has a strong handshake.

“I took a seminar,” she boasts.

“Where?!”

* * *

Her soulmate hasn’t talked to her in years.

She misses their voice, their good advice and annoyingly funny-not-funny jokes. Amy and her soulmate come close every day, feelings mingling and distorting like the abstractions they are, exhaustion settling in both their bones on nights they’re both awake. It isn’t the same without talking, though. Her soulmate seems to have cut all lines of communication. Amy only waits for an answer on the figurative phone. The ‘on hold’ music happens to be the Funky Cold Medina, which makes Amy hate her soulmate all the more.

There are too many thoughts to contain, she knows.

Amy still keeps a soulmate notebook full of little mementoes taped in 一 a bisexual pride flag, two stamps from Quebec to Albany, a coupon from Goodwin’s department store 一 ones that just happen to remind her of her soulmate. She doesn’t even know _why._ Finding them was a one-in-a-million thing, the kind of thing she happened to see in the pockets of old jeans or sitting in her kitchen drawer. Something just stuck out to her. Her notebook is filled with tiny details, scrapbooked ideas, stories of a life she’s never led. The ideas just come to her.

She sits up in bed, 2:48 flashing on her alarm clock. _Blue birthday cake._

Their favorite flavor of cake, she imagines, jotting it down in the notebook before falling back asleep. It might be near her soulmate’s birthday.

She goes shopping with Kylie, falls into some sort of dizzy spell, and finds a receipt in her wallet for a copy of _Die Hard._ Somehow, the movie’s sitting in her purse, wrapped in plastic and remarkably unscathed. Apparently it’s a Canadian copy. Amy wrinkles her nose when she finds it’s a VHS, taping the receipt into her journal and making a note to _never_ watch it.

Only a few miles away, her soulmate is browsing through the internet when he hears a rumor that a foreign copy of his favorite film might have better sound quality.

Taxes are due in eight months, so Amy finds her ten shoeboxes of records and starts filing everything. She pages through sales receipts for days, recording everything online and moving them around so much carbon’s left all over her fingers. Her categories are neat: hobbies, recreational, educational, work-related, large purchases, food/drink, every sheet with its own story and compartment, so nice it’s almost _too_ easy to pay taxes-

And her heart stops.

Page 143 of ‘The Squad’, yellowed with time and scuffed at the edges, sits in front of her. Her eyes scan across the page, wondering just when she read something Jimmy Brogan wrote 一 she doesn’t think she’s ever bought one of his books. Not with _his_ reputation. Homophobia, racism, and sexism aren’t exactly her type of historical fiction.

_“G’night, sweetheart,” Quigg said, winking. “Need someone to walk you home?”_

Amy’s stomach churns, never having forgotten this line, and she scrounges around for her boxes of notebooks. Her eyes wash over the pages, stopping every now and then to admire her selection of gel pen or Disney stickers. There’s no time, she chides herself, holding the page between thumb and forefinger to ensure it’s _real._ It seems so surreal, almost ethereal, to find it now.

**April 13th, 1993: soulmate reads offensive line in Bogan/Logan book. Was sitting in car with Mom, felt sick, soulmate did something to make it all okay.**

Amy Santiago isn’t especially good at reading signs from the universe, but she’s smart enough to know this means _something._ She gently tapes the page into her scrapbook, careful to avoid getting fingerprints on the tape. It sits there, almost waiting for her to finally _find_ her soulmate. As hard as Amy tries, though, getting through is impossible. All she can do is hear the music playing in their head.

 _Bop to the Top._ Just great.

* * *

“What the _fuck?”_ Jake mutters, opening his mailbox to find yet another pamphlet for some educational camp or TED talk. He’s lived his whole life finding these around the corner, seeing more and more as he’s aged. _Thank goodness._ Imagine going through high school as ‘the guy who learns power poses so he can get what he wants with his body.' 

“Funky Cats and their Feisty Stats?” He repeats, wrinkling his nose and taking the thick, black brochure with the rest of his mail (bills, bills, bills - _ugh)_ inside his apartment. This goes in the file, already thickly stacked with signs from the universe. He’s not a detective for _nothing._

This one goes into the ‘education’ folder, the biggest of them all.

It overflows with old math homework and paraphernalia from different conventions. The Crossing Guards’ Jamboree. Someone calling about his soulmate’s blog, the one dedicated to laminating (there are several: one about typography, one discussing time management, and another for budgeting.) Some seminar about how to shake people’s hands?

It’s ridiculous what his soulmate will pay for.

Seems like they need to read their budgeting blog, Jake thinks, before realizing he knows what seminars his soulmate attends without knowing who they actually are. He groans, tossing the advertisement into the folder and putting it away. It’s too much to handle at once. Jake used to write down all the conversations he’d have with his soulmate, before they went and _abandoned_ him. It’s been years since their last proper talk, though he can always hear what they’re thinking. 

Just a lot of miscellaneous talk about secretly smoking cigarettes and Daniel Craig’s hands (ew.)

Jake dismisses all these lonesome thoughts, ignoring the blatancy with which the universe continues to enter his life and leave signals sitting around. Life isn’t normal if he doesn’t shrug away the leftover Polish food in his refrigerator or pretend not to see the cigarette lighter that appears in the bottom of his bathroom drawer. His head nearly haunts him. He isn’t sure he even wants to find his mess of a soulmate at this point.

They’re eclectic. Pushy. Exhaustive. A million different reasons why he shouldn’t be with them, he doesn’t _fit_ them the way soulmates should; he is a lost and jagged puzzle piece to them, and they’re probably halfway around the world wondering who in their right mind could ever fall in love with them. As he gets older, the signs keep coming and coming.

He snaps when a copy of a documentary about the font _Helvetica_ arrives at his doorstep, perfectly covered in plastic-wrap. Who in their right mind would take time out of their day to watch something this senseless?! Rolling his eyes when he flips the cover open (after struggling to unwrap it for five minutes, of course) Jake finds a blue sticky note inside. The universe has figured out how to transfer personal notes on the inside cover of DVDs, he supposes. In impeccable handwriting, the dot on the‘i’ a perfect circle, a message is written.

_Review for typography blog._

He’s had it with the mysterious signals. Midnight dreams about holding label makers. A binder full of weird facts, like someone’s favorite food being corn. An odd dislike of pilsners, German _and_ Bohemian (not like Jake would _care,_ but sometimes a guy just has to use Wikipedia when he’s sick and tired of mind games.)

Jake’s exhausted of dreading the first time he meets his soulmate.

His hands shake as he opens an incognito window and searches for his soulmate’s blogs. A subtle emptiness fills his chest once he’s on the fourth or fifth Google search. Is the universe up to its antics again, or is Jake just this useless? His eyes droop once he’s read ten different articles about the Palatino vs. Times New Roman vs. Garamond argument. His left hand’s fallen asleep by now, pins and needles pricking him from the wrist up. Who’d have guessed the office supplies fandom was this extensive?

He doesn’t know how to feel when he finds her.

His soulmate is a woman. User _missmostappropriate,_ with just under ten thousand followers. Her posts are each works of art, he begrudgingly concedes, after scrolling through ten or fifteen. Good writing, nice photography, enthusiasm he wouldn’t have guessed would be this realistic…

Is this what he’s looking for in a partner? A soulmate, even?

The lingering thought that he could be _wrong_ enters Jake’s mind, but everything clicks far too perfectly. The button-maker and its mirrorbacks. An old story about how she learned power poses (and promptly forgot them because they were too sexual.) Even the dumb _Helvetica_ documentary is on the calendar.

In a weird, I-found-you-on-the-Internet-after-the-universe-nagged-me-to-find-you way, Jake feels like he’s done searching for them. For her.

His breath only catches when he sees the P.O. box _‘missmostappropriate’_ has. And, no, he’s not surprised just because nobody’s used a P. O. box since 1991.

Amy Santiago  
Box #32729  
Brooklyn, NY, 11225 

_Fuck._

A few miles away, Amy Santiago wakes up in a cold sweat at the prospect of cursing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this!!! I am a tired student and I honestly wish I had more time to write, but I've been working on this on-and-off for 2 months now???
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated!!! drop by my tumblr, sadtiagos, if you want to talk or anything <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! comments/kudos are everything to me.


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